An Angel Wouldn't Play With Fire
by Alania Black
Summary: Harry’s life with Uncle vernon has become much worse, and Draco has been forced to become a Death Eater. Now the war is over, they have to try and rebuild their lives. They can help each other along the way, as long as they don’t kill each other first.


This is not really my fic, I'm taking it over for a friend; Vote-Larry4Prez. So, the first 16 chapters are not mine, however I have edited them. I'm compiling them into chapters, so this one is 2 chapters in one.

WARNINGS: non-graphic rape, abuse, child-death (not a canon character), self-harm. Slash. Obviously.

DISCLAIMER: Me? Own anything? Not on your life!

SUMMARY: Harry's life with Uncle vernon has become much worse, and Draco has been forced to become a Death Eater. Now the war is over, they have to try and rebuild their lives. They can help each other along the way, as long as they don't kill each other first. Slash, HPDM.

'Thoughts', _flashbacks_, "talking".

An Angel Wouldn't Play With Fire.

Chapter 1, Harry.

_He cried as a mix of Vernon's sweat and his own blood streaked down his body. Pain, it overwhelmed him. He was swimming in a sea of darkness and pain. He couldn't see anything. When he closed his eyes he could see what had just happened all over again. This was the worst he'd felt in years. For too long he had felt numb, like he was watching his life from the outside of his body, not being able to stop his uncle from tormenting him, not being able to stop the world crashing down around his feet. But now he felt. He felt all the hate radiating off his uncle. He felt the pain as his uncle took him again_. Harry gasped as he woke, tendrils of his haunting memories following him into consciousness.

"Boy, get down here! Now!" Vernon Dursley had just gotten home from one of the worst days of work he had ever had. He had gotten fired because he had been slacking off for months now. He had come home to find the place almost exactly as he left it. That meant that Potter wasn't doing his job either.

Harry Potter ran down the stairs to his Uncle. Harry was a thin sixteen year old boy with a surprising amount of muscles. He had jet black hair streaked with cinnamon now that it was summer. His hair just went past his shoulder and always had that 'just-woke-up' look. He was wearing slim frames glasses over dull emerald eyes; comfortable black trousers and a deep blue shirt.

As soon as his Uncle Vernon saw him, he stared screaming at him again. "Potter, what the hell have I told you about having this house clean when I come home!"

"But sir, you came home early."

"Don't you dare talk to me with that ungrateful voice, boy," Vernon slapped Harry across the face. "I work every day to get the money to feed you and cloth you and you can't even do one bloody thing to help, you good for nothing little freak!"

Vernon's face was purple at this point. Harry was trapped under the heavy body of his uncle as Vernon's fist pounded into him. After what seemed like an hour of spending his anger on Harry, Vernon got up and left the house, most likely to get drunk at some pub or another.

Harry remembered the first time Vernon had ever hit him. It was two years ago, when Vernon's wife, Petunia and son Dudley had died in a car crash. At the time Harry had found it ironic that this was the way they had died; a car crash, the same reason they claimed his own parents had died. Harry had been cleaning the dishes and his uncle had startled him into dropping the cup. His uncle had been distraught over the loss of his wife and son and had taken it out on his nephew.

Harry hated still being here. Voldemort had been killed the previous summer, and there was no need for the blood protection that, with the death of his aunt, he wasn't getting anyway. After Dumbledore's death, and the debacle with the Malfoy's and Severus Snape's trials - they had been spies for Dumbledore but with the old man dead there was little they could do to prove themselves - he'd been pushed aside and ignored until he returned to Privet Drive; to be raped or beaten by his uncle on a daily basis.

Chapter 2, Draco; three years previously.

"Draco, you can come down now!"

Draco could tell by the power of Lucius's's voice that the 'guests' where here waiting for him. Draco, after checking himself in his full length mirror, ran down the stairs. When he got to the bottom however, he almost wished he hadn't agreed to do this, that he could have just stayed in his room because this was just too much now and he didn't think he could pull it off. He walked to the sitting room.

The room was devoid of any furniture. Instead, there where about sixty death eaters. They were all sitting in a circle on the floor of the large room. Standing in the center was the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

Draco had seen the Dark Lord before now, but he had never been allowed to go to a Death Eater meeting before. He knew that was the reason his father had called him down tonight. He was to get the Dark Mark.

He had talked with his father about this. He had told him that for his own safety, he had to get the Dark Mark. Voldemort would have killed him, and then probably Lucius, if he didn't. Lucius took him to see Dumbledore, and the three of them talked about Draco becoming a spy, and the dangers of it. After talking for several days, they both decided it all came down to what Draco wanted. He knew he had to be a spy; he knew how evil and wrong Voldemort was.

_"My lord, he's only thirteen! Can't you wait?" Narissa Malfoy didn't like the idea of her thirteen year old baby working for an evil vile creature like Voldemort. _

_"You'll shut up if you know what's good for you, bitch," Vodemort hissed. _

_"Please, my lord," Narissa cried, "please, he is only thirteen years old! He can't get the Mark yet."_

_"He can, and he will, unless of course you think that you can stop me, the most powerful wizard in the world."_

_"My lord, I won't let you!"_

_"Is that so... Avada Kedavra!"_

_Draco turned away to hide his tears as his mother fell at Voldemort's feet, her lifeless corpse a stark reminder of the fruitlessness of fighting Voldemort's wishes._

It was hard to think that his mother had been killed right in front of his eyes; just over a month ago. The worst thing about it was that she died in vain. He was still going to be a Death Eater, but now he didn't have his mother there to help him be strong. It reminded him a bit of Potter - he'd lost his parents so young, he'd never had their support. That was a bit strange, since when had Draco cared about bloody perfect Potter; never ming felt empathy for him.

It must be lack of sleep, he decided logically. He had been getting less and less sleep lately, he'd been training to become a spy. When he heard he would have to spend his entire summer training, he was very angry. He didn't think the training would have been this hard. He had spent nineteen hours a day for three weeks straight training. Tonight was the big test; he was to get the Dark Mark.

He stepped forward and knelt at Voldemort's feet, trying to block out the memory of his mother in the same position at his feet. At least he was alive.

"Draco Malfoy, tonight you will get the Dark Mark. Do you accept the responsibility that comes with it? Do you want to clean the earth of all the dirty blood of muggles and mudbloods?" Voldemort hissed. It almost reminded Draco of the vows one took at a wedding.

"Yes, my Lord." Draco replied evenly, humbly.

"As a last test of will and character, we have a sacrifice," As Voldemort said this, two Death Eaters brought forward a young Muggle prisoner. "Will you do the honors, young Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco stepped forward to the small Muggle girl who he knew he had to kill. She had long brown hair and brown eyes. She reminded him so much of Granger except she looked no older than seven or eight.

He took the kinfe that Voldemort was offering to him and lifted it to his eyes. It was a fine blade with an ebony handle. The Dark Mark was delicately carved into it and the light glimmered off it with a green sheen that defied the material and tasted of magic. He didn't look at her when he stabbed her, afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be able to do it.

When he was finally released to go to bed, he found he couldn't sleep. The memory of that girl, of her final gurgling cry, echoed through his mind. Finally he gave up and pulled one of his own knives out of the drawer. It glimmered with the same sheen that the knife he'd committed murder with did. He took a deep breath and slashed the knife across his wrist.


End file.
